The Chessmaster Of Starling
by NovelT
Summary: The Queen family, Felicity decided, has a developing tradition of misplacing their men, men whom it usually befell to her to find. Good thing she was in no danger of becoming one. Not that she had ever contemplated that possibility. Much. Anyway, the bad thing? That was her prelude to tumbling down this rabbit hole. [Post Season 1 and almost definitely A.U.]
1. Sticks and Stones

There are three types of prisons in this world: those meant to contain, those meant to rehabilitate... those meant to break.

This one is small, no more than three paces from side to side. Floor, walls, all painted a uniform black. The furnishing consists of a single bucket of stale water, another for waste. There are no windows. There is no light.

There is one inhabitant. His hair is long, bedraggled, many days in need of a good washing. His bush of a beard might house rats. The clothes on his back are no more than rags, really, what might once have been serviceable cloth now torn in some places and outright slashed in others. But his eyes are not those of a caged and defeated beast. As much as the rest of him blends into the surrounding dinginess, those eyes are the most austere of blues, clear and uncompromising.

Most waking hours, he exercises. A standard fare of push ups, one-handed and explosive, lift his body a couple of feet off the ground. Squats, jumps and in-place jogging are mere warm-up, time fillers. There are more exotic moves, like bracing himself in a wedge between two walls, the tension in his body keeping him suspended for at least an hour at a stretch. Some are yoga-like stances for stamina and flexibility, hand-standing, balancing in the most improbable poses. It suffices to say that there is no concealing his industry: even sans the not-so-hidden camera, there is no mistaking his preternaturally good condition, unbecoming of a chronically maltreated prisoner.

He has tried to escape seven times. In each occasion they had thrown him back here worse for the wear, soundly beaten but yet alive. They are not ordinary men, cold, professional, and in overwhelming numbers.

On bad days he paces, mind lost in the maze of his past. Sometimes he halts and shuts his eyes, as a particular memory/hope surfaces.

Some days his rage is as palpable as a second creature, stalking the cell too small for them each, much less both. He does not yell, beg, nor beat his fists, for he knows these to be futile. He knows his body is his best and perhaps only weapon, so he sleeps, he eats jail slop, he trains. He plans, and he hates.

The prisoner is relatively quiescent today; some ineffable charge in the air has him on alert, and if anybody is watching they would have seen his eyes sharp behind the thin slot that is his only contact with the outside world. The guard rotation is too competent to let much slip, but details are not lost on him: the slightly more rigid stance in one back, the more terse words from another. His eyes narrow. His mind races over scenarios, strategies.

He waits.

* * *

The building is just two stories tall, ostensibly one of the new security firms that have popped up like mushrooms post the "Gutting of the Glades", as press drama calls it. The ground floor is a reception/office area, filled with bulky men in suits and the occasional female in secretarial and public relation roles - this is one industry where gender equalization is slow to encroach. The first floor is one large training area, equipped with as close to military-grade facilities as is legal to obtain, from gym machines to firing ranges.

There are actually two more floors underground. The elevator is a trick, with buttons for the two officially existent levels, but if one presses them just so, in a particular timed sequence, it will take one below.

To the dungeons, or the figure perched on the rooftop thinks.

The dark clothing, though modest and functional, do not fully hide the curves of a woman's figure. A half-mask obscures her face, but her hair makes a startling contrast with the dusk sky, long and silvery white. She is finalizing adjustments to a climbing harness roped to some convenient piping. Then she walks up to the edge of the flat industrial style roof, and jumps.

Momentum carries her neatly besides a small grilled window, the always-open kind that ventilates a bathroom. Her landing makes barely a thud in the quiet of night. She slips a prying tool in between the slats of the grill, and pulls until the hole that she makes is about a five centimeter in clearance. Through this she slips something akin to a spider, which begins climbing down the wall on its delicate, suction-tipped legs. Her gloved fingers control it via a handset.

The spider creeps across the floor, exits the bathroom and is in the training area proper. The soft whir of its motors are inaudible over the grunts of training men, and its dull gray coloring matches the floor tiles. The area, nay, the building, is far too well staffed for ten p.m. in a first-world enterprise, yet the little mechanical creature remains undetected as it makes its round across the gym. At strategic spots - a flower pot here, behind a couch there - it stops and a panel in its underbelly opens, depositing a small gray pillbox.

Eventually the spider returns whence it came, easily ascending the wall now that its payload has been delivered. Its owner scoops it up and gently deposits it into a padded case, together with the handset. The case goes into a utility bag strapped onto her back. Then she pushes off the wall again.

Her second target is on the ground floor, but the ventilation grating is the same. This one she removes completely with the help of a blue laser cutter, secures it to her backpack, which she then pulleys up to the roof. Her next action is perhaps a strange one for this scene: she takes a few slow, deep breaths.

The ensuing minutes are an art of pure motion.

With the rope as leverage, she swings through the window, feet first.

Lands fluidly on the bathroom floor.

Moves to the door, gun drawn.

Opens it, fires three silenced shots, near-immediately after.

Three bodies hit the ground, but she is already walking past them.

Five men are downed in their cubicles, one manages half of a shout.

A clatter of running feet builds up, a hornet's nest stirred.

Her left hand triggers a device attached to her hip, her right hand fires two more shots. Both meet their mark.

In the floor above, each of the spider's gifts cracks open, seeping an ochre gas.

She swings behind a wall just in time to avoid bullets now zinging her way.

The men upstairs begin to choke and collapse. There will be no reinforcements.

She darts from behind cover at irregular intervals, always in motion, always from an unexpected direction.

Six guards fall.

The gunshots stop.

She has reached the front desk, behind which a young woman huddles, sobbing for mercy.

The receptionist earns a knock-out blow to the head.

There is more muffled crying in the distance, but the assassin stands immobile, listening.

She whips around, squeezing the trigger as she drops into a crouch.

The man creeping up from behind lets out a strangled yell. His body thuds onto the ground.

Silence.

Satisfied that none of substance are left standing, she walks back towards and into the elevator. Her fingers press a confident pattern of buttons.

The doors slide shut as it descends.

* * *

The prisoner squints as light floods his cell. He is standing crammed in a corner closest to the door, still shrouded in shadow, poised for the element of surprise. Despite best efforts his eyes, many days unused to brightness, fails to make out much more than a back-lit silhouette. But he has not survived so far by hesitating, thus there is barely a pause before he launches himself bodily at the figure.

Rather than take the impact of his not inconsiderable momentum however, the intruder twists as they both tumble to the ground, rolling fluidly until it is he who is pinned below. Old instincts kick in to catalog his situation - the body above him is rather light, but there is a certain sureness in its form, its grasp. His arms are pinned securely if painlessly above his head, an expert move designed to hold yet not harm. That said, the captive is no ordinary man himself. Even a martial artist would be foolish to assume a foregone conclusion, much less one in an inferior weight category.

But he remains still, for even as his vision is clears he is struck by a faint, nostalgic scent of blue lotus. For a moment he is unguarded, despite caution, despite logic.

"Felicity?"


	2. A Dramatic Rescue

"Felicity?" The prisoner's tone borders on incredulous, but his voice is scratchy, as if unused in a long, long while.

The intruder releases his wrists in their ceasefire, gloved hands moving to pull the mask from her face. The long white hair comes off together with it, and a bright gold ponytail tumbles free of its confines.

"Oliver," she replies, not quite steadily. Her hand traces what he imagines must be another scar to add to his collection, on his left temple as an initiation to this hellhole. There are a couple more marks in less visible places, but she doesn't need to know. He feels her fingers trembling, like butterfly wings upon his skin.

The young man smiles, not disingenuously. As much as he conceals from his family, his oldest friends, he has never successfully lied to this woman. He does not know why. Instead he deadpans: "For the record, I'm not saying that I don't enjoy this type of thing. Under different circumstances."

"What? Oh!" Felicity scrambles off him, almost falling over in her hurry, a flustered movement more familiar than her earlier grace. As he picks himself up, she sights down the still-empty corridor, peers into the cell she had just broken him out of, fiddles with something in the cuff of her most interesting outfit. A few feet away, halfway to the elevator, two guards lie prone on the ground. Their weapons are drawn but slack in their hands, not a single shot fired. A ceiling fan spins lazily above. It does not do much for the oppressively enclosed space, the metallic scent of blood in the air.

Oliver wonders if the one responsible ever intends to look him in the face again.

She has no trouble fussing over his body, all but poking for ailments. He fends her off with impatience, and perhaps a twinge of vanity. "I'm fine, Felicity. What are you doing here? _How_ are you here?"

She starts to glare, but quickly looks away. "I've already found Diggle, he's as well as can be expected. One level up. I told him to stay put."

Oliver's eyes narrow. She is clad in a soft leather bodysuit, matte black, topped off with black gloves and long black boots. A harness slings over her right shoulder to her upper left arm, upon which are attached a number of thingamabobs the purpose of which he could not decipher. Both forearms are protected by vambraces of some flexible material. Straps across her right thigh secure a stick-like object, and a more familiarly shaped gun.

He opens his mouth, but settles for raising his eyebrows instead.

Felicity is still busy not looking at him, instead putting her wig and mask back in place. The vambrace on her right arm is more cunning than it first appears, for a few touches has it lighting up into a computerized display. Oliver turns his head towards the exit, every sense alight with adrenaline. But there is only a profound stillness in their surroundings, like he has never noted even in the deepest nights.

"You're going to have to stay put too. I've, erm, disabled your captors, but we still need a cover story for your escape."

"Bad take-out?" Oliver offers, although his right hand flexes restlessly. He expects a Look like she has given every one of his cover stories, but Felicity is tapping away on her "wearable" computer, and white bangs shadow her face.

"I've made it look as much like a turf war as I can, and if anybody saw me with any luck they'll pin it on our friend in the Triad." She gestures at her camouflage locks. "Death, destruction, drama. And guns. Did I mention how much I hate guns? They're so... easy. Wham, bam, bye-bye ma'am."

Her device flashes several times. Oliver tries to peer over her shoulder, but it has apparently not been designed with sharing in mind.

"I'm placing an anonymous call to the police," Felicity continues without pause. "They should be here in nine point two minutes, and voila, one dramatic and newsworthy rescue of Oliver Queen, the most misfortune-prone upper society boy who has ever lived."

He resists to peek at her back, in case she has sprouted wings too. "Sounds like you have things all planned out."

"Yes I do, don't I? Planning is my middle name. When it's not Hacker. Or sometimes Megan, but that one's boring. Anyway, sorry Mr. Hood, but your job in this one is just to sit tight and look pretty enough to rescue. Well maybe not so pretty, wouldn't want the police to draw the wrong conclusions, heh. Not that you'd have any trouble with that right now. Not to say that you're not pretty, under different circumstances. That definitely did not come out ri-"

"Felicity. How long has it been since Diggle and I were...?" Oliver waves a hand at their surroundings.

His friend mumbles something that might be "a year", and for a heartbeat his mind blanks. Her hands wring skittishly together. She starts to pace.

"Hey." Oliver grabs her upper arms, maneuvering her to face him instead of everywhere else. He lifts her stubbornly down-turned chin with a finger.

The tears brimming in her eyes startle him immensely. And like most men, he is horrified when they increase to spilling over.

"Sorry, sorry! I'm just a little overexcited." Felicity wrenches from his grasp and dashes a hand across her face. "And this is not the most relaxing place for a heart-to-heart chat. Not that we ever have heart-to-hearts, I'd imagine that would be sort of like major surgery, open body cavities and all that. If I ever imagine such things. Which I don't. Anyway, I had a plan. Have a plan. We-"

"Felicity," he repeats firmly. "Felicity, look at me. You did good, understand?"

Her eyes slide away, but after a while she nods, and time ticks even without a clock. So Oliver goes obediently back to his cell, and tries not to stare as, after a brief hesitation, his rescuer shuts him back into the darkness. The light from the viewing slot falls in a paltry line upon the ground, in the exact position as the month before, and the month before. Another man might plaster himself upon that surface, seeking whatever last glimpse of freedom he can. The man also known as The Hood only takes a deep breath.

A shudder goes through the building, not so much heard as felt. The strip of light flickers and goes out.

And then there is only to wait, and wonder.

* * *

Soft yellow light suffuses the room, creating an atmosphere of warmth and intimacy despite its size. In the middle is a long rectangular table, a simple design consisting of mahogany on steel. The slender curves of metal seem insufficient to bear the two-inch thick slab of wood above. Yet that they do, plus the burden of candles in silver holders, glasses sparkling with wine, and several plates of food besides.

There are only two at this table, but their lighthearted conversation fills the space. At the head of the table sits an older woman, on her right a young man. Their dress is the informal elegance achieved only by a certain class of people who walk into designer boutiques as a matter of course. Yet they are speaking of mundane things: anecdotes from their respective days, the state of the small orchard out back. The young man is promised peach pies on his next visit.

A side door opens soundlessly, admitting a gray-haired man in a black suit. He waits next to the serving girl standing discretely at the back. Neither of the diners appear to notice. The young man recommends a book that he had just read. The woman looks thoughtfully at him, finishes cutting a piece of meat, chews with savor, and wipes her mouth daintily on a napkin.

"Oh don't be so formal, old friend," she says without so much as a glance over her shoulder. "Sit down, tell us what has transpired. Have a meal with the family for once, instead of that kitchen corner you're so very fond of."

The butler walks into view, but though she waves at the chair to her left, all he gives her is a look of longstanding patience. Then he inclines his head towards the young man.

"My grandson can hear whatever it is you have to tell. He is heir to our family's duties, after all."

The older man raises his eyebrows, but ignores the other after that and continues addressing the woman. "We just lost contact with Lasker Securities, ma'am."

"Oh? Was I not explicit enough about the Queen boy's... abilities?"

"It wasn't him, ma'am. From what we can tell, the attack came in from the ground floor. Impeccably planned, perfectly executed - almost like they had information from the inside. It was a massacre."

The young man goes a bit pale. His eyes flick to his grandmother, but she is calmly taking a sip of wine.

"And Queen?" she asks.

"We don't know. The place is crawling with police after some passerby called in about hearing shots. There was also a power surge that literally fried every piece of equipment on site. Perhaps from the backup generator."

The woman makes a noncommittal sound. "We will hear about Queen's fate soon enough. What information do we have about the attack itself?"

"Very little, I'm afraid. Whomever it was knew our systems, timed it right after one of the regular data dumps. Fifteen minutes to take down twenty-five combat specialists." The butler shakes his head, either in approval or disapproval. "We only caught wind when the next packet came. Truncated at ten seconds of the highest priority camera footage, and we're lucky to have that at all. My guess is that there was some unforeseen delay before they could overload the generator."

"Well, don't keep me in suspense! I know you have something up your sleeve when I see it."

The slightest curve threatens the line of the older man's mouth. He brings one hand from behind his back, revealing a tablet computer set to display a grainy photograph. On it one can just about make out a figure in black, caught in motion down a narrow corridor. The person is facing the camera, but a half-mask obscures its face. Long, pale hair is the clearest feature.

"This is the best image we have," the butler says.

"A woman," his employer pronounces decisively. "Was she alone?"

"That is unknown, but we have nobody else on tape."

"Hmmm. Young Master Queen did always have a soft spot for the ladies. I don't recall many ex-es with a soft spot for him though. Even less who fit this bill."

The butler retracts his arm with a formal nod. "I will have it looked into immediately, ma'am."

"I don't understand, grandmother." The young man, silent so far, interrupts. "From what you have told me, is Oliver Queen not exactly the type of person we could use in our undertaking?"

"Robert Queen's boy." The woman sighs. "For all that he has suffered, the poor dear, he is still very much naive. And rather single-minded in his pursuit of, shall we say, redemption."

She pats the young man maternally on his arm. "No, dear, I'm afraid that Oliver Queen is not ready to listen, much less act as this nation needs, right now."

"But his vigilante work, wouldn't that at least have helped regulate the fallout from the Glades?"

"That may be, but the Hood is not what this city needs right now either. Not yet. Remember, child, that to heal a surgeon must often first harm."

Her grandson nods, though perhaps still not with full understanding. "Is he a danger to the plan, then? Will you have him recaptured?"

The woman's face crinkles into a smile. "Now now, I'm hardly the last word in such decisions. Still, I think we will let Oliver Queen be, for now. Miss Friday's timing is somewhat... inconvenient, but it's nothing a few adjustments can't handle."

She picks up her fork, spears a perfectly red cherry tomato. "We will simply have to move up the schedule."


End file.
